


For All Eternity

by kioraxerxo



Category: Dress Up! Time Princess (Video Game)
Genre: BAMF Women, Established Relationship, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Louis being a fan, Louis worshipping his wife, Marie being a badass, Period-Typical Sexism, Post 2-8 Ending, Sexist Language, Spoilers for 2-8 I guess, Women In Power, soft romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kioraxerxo/pseuds/kioraxerxo
Summary: A collection of Marie x Louis one shots because the king deserved better than what canon gave him.
Relationships: Marie Antoinette/Louis XVI (Dress Up! Time Princess)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 71





	For All Eternity

**1**

In the near decade Auguste has known his wife, he admired her in a rather passive sense, as if she were a fleeting memory— only granting her presence in the cold and obligatory halls of Versailles all the while pleasantly distant in the intimate spaces by which any good man and wife should cohabit. 

Often, he wondered how she appraised him behind her slowly fluttering fan. He knew enough that his wife had formed an impression in her mind of him— perhaps a spectre, a painting, or anything of transitory nature.

He was passive. Indecisive. Unready. Ambivalent. And even to an extent, a fool. 

She on the other hand, is active. Determined. Single-minded. And at the height of her efficiency, a monarch. 

He has never felt so smaller than he did as of this moment, sitting on the throne of his ancestors, shrouded under a heavy golden baldachin, anointed by divine right in the eyes of God, to lead this historical decision for the future of their homeland. 

He is France. 

But why does this Austrian princess feel more like a sovereign than he could ever be. 

Like a thunderous river stubbornly pushing past the rocks, Her Majesty enters and the crowd parts for her and bows deeply. Auguste felt like kneeling too. 

Not in just in her sheer capacity to strike such a profound sense of regal awe and reverence, but even more so in a way a man beholden his wife. 

The hem of her opulent aegean blue dress sweeps elegantly across the marble like a strong current pushing past the sea foam. He dares to look her in the eyes to find her staring back intently— a small upturn to her lips, like she knows he is watching. 

He stands as she approaches the steps of the throne, offering his hand in assistance. She takes it and gives him a little squeeze. 

“Your Majesty,” he says quietly, “good afternoon.” 

Her lips quirk upward, a brief slip of her teeth, before she schools her features once more. “My King.” She knew very well the effects of her addressing him such would do. 

She was sleek and refined. Her hat sported delicate grey feathers, secured with an elegant emerald. Her wig was perfectly powdered and modest in size. Her gloves matched her gown, her wedding ring on her finger, shining proud. A hint of the tip of her shoe showed that she put thought to match it as well. A perfect depiction of a sovereign.  _ She is pristine and perfect _ , Louis thought.

From the side of the baldachin, Blaisdell sends both of them a pointed look before turning to the members of the Estates General. 

“Esteemed members of the Estate General— Nobility, Clergy, and Gentry,” he announces, his voice ringing clearly through the hall. 

“Your Royal Majesties,” he turns and bows to the both of them, “we meet on this historical day, to continue deliberations on the Declarations of Rights of Man and of the Citizen, the preamble of our great Constitution by which the bedrock of democracy in our great nation will soon rise.” 

The halls applauded loudly and Louis felt himself swell with pride. 

Pride in this nation’s new beginnings built on equality and freedom. 

“We call upon the next speaker who proposes a reconstitution of our preamble in the spirit of inclusivity and equitability. Her Royal Majesty, the Queen.” 

He felt her take a deep breath beside him before standing tall as whispers began to fill the hall of the Assembly. 

_ A woman?  _

_ The Queen?  _

_ Marie Antoinette?  _

His feelings of pride began to ebb away the more the whispers permeated the walls, only to be replaced by contempt and righteous anger for his wife. He looked to her to see how she dealt with this, and just like he had expected (however, will never not be in awe of), she remained impassive and steadfast. A firm but elegant arch in her brow, a tilt upwards of her chin, a look in her eyes that invited the criticism. 

She began to approach the speaker's rostrum when suddenly, a flustered noble stood and sputtered. 

“Your Royal Majesty, surely a woman of your stature would know this is highly inappropriate.” 

She turned to him, her features unchanging. “Pray tell, however so, Monsieur Fonblaue?” 

The noble grew red in the face, perhaps surprised that she would inquire about such a basic matter. He looked to the ministers who shot him back looks of pity and disapproval, until he locked eyes with a scowling King. 

He looked around the Estates General as if to survey for allies amongst the gaunt faces; not finding a single one. Alas, he met once again with the Queen’s. 

“You are a woman, Your Majesty,” he said. 

“Astute observation, monsieur,” she replies, mounting the rostrum gracefully, folding her forearms on the age-old wood, and smiling, “I am also your Queen.” 

A silence fills the halls for a moment before the noble sits himself down. 

Her voice fills the halls as she begins her speech. 

“Members of the Estates General, Monsieur Fonblaue has made an excellent example of the case I am to argue today, as to which I may thank him for providing an opportune display. Women have the right to mount the scaffold, they must very well have the right to mount the speaker’s rostrum.”

_ “And yet it took her seven years to mount the King.”  _ A murmur came from one of the pews, small but loud enough to be heard by all. The Count himself, who was the source, was surprised at the volume by which he said so. 

Louis had to force himself not to jump in indignity. He schooled his voice to remain calm but even he could tell the anger that seeped through. “Viscount Lontaut, I will not tolerate you disrespecting the Queen in her own household. An affront to her is an affront to all of France. Take him away.”

“Your Majesty,” Marie calls, not looking at him, but straight into the Viscount’s, “I would suggest that he stay. Him and his like are exactly the audience that need to hear my message. And we advocate for due process now. Count Lontaut may be a fool, but let him serve as an example on the importance of a stout education.” 

He could tell that Marie was doing her best to remain detached but he could hear the stirrings of impatience. She abhorred being interrupted. Recently, he has sought her counsel in almost every matter of state. Her, Blaisdell, and Lafayette have been the constant faces in his office, advising him on the decisions that will shape the future of France. Blaisdell would often receive the sharp bite of her retorts whenever he interrupts her. The Queen and the Minister’s intellectual squabbles have become a recurring jest between him and the Marquis as they watched the two debate about due process from a safe distance, sipping their morning coffees. 

Marie’s quick riposte is known to silence every man (with the exception of one perturbed Minister on his third cup of coffee) and she knew of her power with words. That is why Louis was well-aware of her forbearance in the face of the Estates General. 

Despite the Queen’s mercy, the hall flooded with doubt on the Queen’s message. Shifting eyes and muttered contempt. This was unheard of. Was this not the woman who frivolously squandered the nation’s coffers to the brink? Was she not the Queen who failed to bring an heir for nearly a decade? If she is so easily challenged by her responsibilities as a wife, what more can she contribute as a Queen? A woman has no place in the honourable fraternity concerning stately matters. 

Marie tapped the wood of the rostrum to regain the attention of the assembly. She took a deep breath and declared the following words that had caused the greatest uproar Louis has ever heard in a single room. 

“I argue that the Declaration’s definition of man should encompass women and that the Citizen shall be bestowed equally to all human inhabitants of France, including women, children, and servants.” 

Louis had to physically cover his ears at the mayhem of impassioned objections. In this muted chaotic silence, he realised, his wife was the only woman in the room. 

Monsieur Fonblaue stood once more, his voice reining in the other contesters. He seemed to have regained his confidence at the sight of others that might support him. 

“Your Majesty, this is outrageous! I have restrained myself before but I will no longer stand for this insult! If women were to parade around going about their day in the manner by which men do, then what of the home? What of the children? Who will manage the household? 

“Simple. Both spouses,” she replied. 

“Preposterous!” Yells another, “Madame, you may have mistaken your position in this hall be any more than ornamental and symbolic. You sit on the throne entirely for formal reasons and hold no such influence on political matters!” 

Marie’s patience was wearing thin. Louis could tell as it was her habit to grip her skirts when agitated. This however, did not go unnoticed by the rest of the hall. 

“With all due respect, Madame,” a relatively collected yet snide and condescending voice swept through the Assembly. “These matters are by nature quite stressful— a beautiful woman such as yourself should not ruffle your skirts over such. Leave the governing to us, “ a young man smirked. 

She noticed how, in the tumult, she had ruined her otherwise pristine gown. She suddenly noticed the cold sweat beneath her wig. Her tight corset, restricting her breathing. And her skirt, her poor ruffled, unkempt, skirt. 

“It is quite unbecoming, Madame.” He continued, “Us men are uncaring for our appearances, as such we are able to turn our attention to more important matters. Such beauty and elegance has no room in a boisterous hall of brotherhood.” 

Louis, for a moment, became worried about Marie. His wife knew the power of appearances in court. Her appearances may have been the only way to navigate through court all of her life. She was very careful in how she constructed her image. Unlike him, her appearance was perhaps the only measure of her worth in the eyes of the nobility in France. 

He nearly stood to come to her aid when she suddenly spoke. 

“Excuse me, Monsieur. It seems that you are correct. I should not stand before you in such an untidy skirt,” she mused, and walked towards the doors, exiting without another word. 

Louis was furious. He has never felt more furious in his life. He believed himself to be a reserved and patient man, but for someone to dismiss Marie from her own meeting? 

“It must be difficult, Your Majesty,” he heard the voice said with a tone of camaraderie, “How ever do you manage such a wife?”

The few dappled chuckles came here and there only served to fuel him further. He wanted to throw up in shame and rage. Anger at the perpetrators, anger at the bystanders, and anger at himself for not being able to defend her. 

His eyes were firmly trained at the door in which she left but his ears heard every private whisper in the room. Time passed as he heard the idle murmur. 

_ “Like a spirited mare, she must be an exciting ride.” _

_ “A good whipping is all it takes.” _

_ “Whatever has the world come to? Skirts in assembly halls!”  _

The doors burst open and in strode a pair of white breeches. 

The click-clack of the red-heeled shiny leather shoes rang clear and confident. 

A crisply ironed burgundy waistcoat, with a cream kerchief tucked perfectly beneath, fixed by a red ribbon and a golden brooch showing the royal fleur-de-lis. 

Devoid of a wig, their hair was neatly curled and tucked underneath a fine leather hat that rivalled his own. They wore a blue coat with golden trimmings reflecting the afternoon sun, casting an ethereal glow around the figure, only overshadowed by the figure's brilliant grin. 

They strode to the rostrum and stood high. The figure threw the hem of their coat back as to plant their hands firmly on their waist, and bellowed a great triumphant laugh. 

It took a moment for Louis to realize that this person was his beloved wife. 

“Now that the matter of skirts have been set aside,” she grinned and looked at each and every one of the eyes in the room. “Gentlemen, let us get on with important matters of state.” She declared, and rapped the wood of the rostrum with her bare knuckles. Every jaw in the hall was unhinged, including his. 

“I envision a nation with a genuine pursuit of freedom, equality, and justice. A beacon of democracy and fairness. Sure steps by which Europe will clammer to follow.” 

Her voice boomed, every word ringing and striking true. 

“What good is the Declaration of Rights when it only grants the rights of some? In its current state, the Declaration only grants rights to the male citizen that owns property. How many people in France do you think qualifies for that?” 

She dismounts the rostrum and strides to the middle of the halls and approaches a member from the commoner pews. 

“You, monsieur, had the privilege of being born male. Congratulations.” She grinned, and a few chuckled with her. “However, if I am not mistaken, you are the representatives of the farmhands, correct?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He replies. 

“As such, you own no property for yourself. Is it fair to you that your landlord, who already holds power, gains even more while you don’t? And yet you stand here and fight for his rights?” 

“No, Your Majesty.” He replies, a spark of understanding clear in his eyes. 

“I agree! What lousy declaration of highfalutin ideals as freedom, justice, and equality for the few! What greedy, empty, promises that serve only to further the interests of a small minority in the guise of liberty. What a farce!” She laughed. 

“What are men who quiver and flounder at the sight of a woman’s unruly skirt!” She stares right into the eyes of the man that dismissed her a while ago. “Do they draw their power solely from their breeches?” She mused. 

She walked back to the rostrum and planted her feet firmly, as if to cement her right to stand there.

“Not until the ‘Us’ that this document pertains to includes all French citizens will we ever attain genuine liberty. Not a single one of us is free, until all of us are free.”

Suffice to say, the Declaration was revised. In the following weeks, the Assembly reformed its roster seats to be occupied by half of women, inclusive of servants. It caused a stir in the whole continent.

Marie herself loved to alter her outfits between gowns and breeches. She would laugh at him whenever she would catch him blushing at the sight of her in breeches. He loved it, and she knew he did. A fact which she endlessly teased him for. 

She championed her ideals and inspired her cohorts. She stood for the marginalised and less fortunate. She had an innate sense to sniff out injustice. 

Her confidence was a source he strives to emulate every day of his life, if only to be the King that France deserved. 

“Auguste!” She called from behind him in the hallway and he beheld her once more in her rose pink coat. He considers a day blessed when he sees her wearing that particular piece. 

“It’s your favourite!” She chimes and twirls, her coat tails billowing around. His heart pounds in his chest. She spins into his arms and he hugs her, placing a kiss on the crown of her head. 

“Indeed it is. You’ve made me infinitely happier by doing so, my love.” He couldn’t help but grin at her nuzzling his jabot, a habit of her he finds most endearing. 

They walk hand in hand to their next meeting —  towards building their new nation. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So some of these quotes in this chapter were from actual historical badass women. 
> 
> "Women have the right to mount the scaffold, they must also have the right to mount the speaker's rostrum" is by a feminist during the era named Olympe de Gouges as quoted from Naish's book Death Comes to the Maiden (1991). 
> 
> "Until we are all free, we are none of us free. " is a quote by poet and all around badass Emma Lazarus. 
> 
> I've got a couple more prompts in mind but ya'll have any suggestions, write them down in the comments. I'd love to hear them!


End file.
